Clay watched coldly as they dragged TJ unceremoniously out of the back of the car by his tethered arm. Grade scrambled out too, despite what he’d been told, and grabbed at TJ’s arm in protest. Clay couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was, he backed down after one of Fisher’s thugs put a practiced hand on his gun.
He backed up a couple of steps, hands held up in surrender, as they shoved TJ toward Mouthpiece’s car. Clay waited until they were beside him and stepped in front of them. He pulled TJ into a rough one-armed hug.
“We’ll sort this out,” he promised, and then leaned in close enough that he could drop the threat directly into TJ’s ear. “Keep your mouth shut, TJ.”
TJ pulled away. “Or what?”
“That’s enough of that,” Mouthpiece said. “No talking. Mr. Traynor, you and Mr. Ezra better hope that Buchanan turns up.”
“Oh,” Clay said. He could feel theedgeof sharp, inappropriate humor scrape at the back of his throat as he grinned, “I’m sure he will.”
Bits of him, at least.
TJ was shoved—with a squawk of protest—into the trunk of the Lexus. While the rest of his men waited for him, Mouthpiece walked over. The man Clay had shot hobbled grimly at his heels; blood streaked over the road from the blown-out sole of his boot.
“Mr. Traynor,” Mouthpiece said, his voice even and almost pleasant, “you have this coming.”
He gave the nod and stepped to the side. That gave his henchman a clear shot at Clay’s face with the brass knuckles he’d slipped on over his hand. Clay caught the hit on the side of his jaw and went down, his head full of dull red pain cut through with the buzzy high of an adrenaline hit.
Blood filled Clay’s mouth, sweet and salted. He swallowed instead of spat and ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. All still present and accounted for.
“Fair enough,” Clay said. His jaw hurt when he moved it, but less than he’d expected. It wasn’t broken. “Only one free shot per customer, though. Next time—”
“Next time, we burn you and your boss alive in that nice house of his,” the man said. He tried to put weight on his foot and grimaced as he thought better of it. It sharpened the venom in his voice. “Kids too, if they’re lucky. Resale value is pretty good on—”
Clay laughed, a harsh, nasty sound, and grabbed the man’s boot. He jammed his thumb into the bloody wet hole and dug down until he felt splintered bone scrape his knuckles. The man retched audibly, his face stained gray in shock, as he folded at the waist.
“You go near those kids,” Clay said. His voice had slowed down, slow and thick despite the flash of quick black anger that tried to shove it out through his clenched teeth, “I’ll ruin you.”
Sweat stood out on the man’s forehead and upper lip. He peeled his lips back from his teeth in a grimace and cocked his arm back.
“No,” Mouthpiece said briskly. “That’s enough.”
The man made an inchoate noise of protest. “Look what he’s done to me!”
“Oh, quit whining,” Clay said. He let go of the man’s foot. His thumb squelched like he’d had it jammed in a pie as he pulled it out, red from nail to joint.
He stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum.
The thought skittered erratically through Clay’s attention. He swallowed the crack of inappropriate laughter that pushed against the back of his tongue. “I could have done worse.”
“He’s right,” Mouthpiece said. “Get back in the car.”
For a second, it looked like the man wouldn’t listen to his marching orders. Then he spat on Clay—thick and viscous against his cheek and T-shirt—and staggered back to the car. He dragged his foot behind him as he went, and no one offered him a hand.
“Don’t think that means anything good for you,” Mouthpiece said. He had his jacket slung over his arm, and he tucked his free hand into his pocket. With the sun on him, he looked like he should have been inVogueinstead of on a back road to a shithole town. “I doubt you or Ezra will make it to the end of the week. That’s just not our call to make.”
Clay leaned back against the road, his weight propped on one elbow. He grinned with bloody teeth and casually gave Mouthpiece the finger. For a second, they looked at each other, and then Mouthpiece shook his head and turned toward Grade.
“Think carefully about who you throw your lot in with, kid,” he said. “Sinking ships go down with all hands, involved or not.”
He turned on his heel and stalked back to the car. The rest of his men climbed in, doors slammed, and engines coughed to life. Both black cars pulled away and drove off down the road, back toward the Pit.
“Shit,” Grade said. He came over and crouched down next to Clay, one hand gingerly laid on his shoulder. “Are you OK?”
Clay pulled the neck of his shirt up and wiped his mouth. “I’ve been worse.”
“You sure about that?” Grade asked dryly as he grabbed Clay’s arm and pulled him up off the road.
